


Safe As Houses

by echoist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, slight masochistic tendencies, who invited the werecats to this party, world of darkness references that no one will get, wound licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles always seems to find himself in the line of fire. Accidentally, on purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe As Houses

**Author's Note:**

> Mad thanks to iliadawry for convincing me this story was all right after all! Beta hugs for you, iliadawry. <3

 

 

“Well,” Stiles said breathlessly from where he sprawled across a pile of rotting two-by-fours behind a pair of extremely stubborn werewolves. “That went better than expected.” He looked at the corpse of the werecat slouched at the end of the alleyway, charred and reeking of burnt flesh and fur. He covered his nose with the neck of his t-shirt, wincing at the bright flash of pain in his shoulder. He was just beginning to think that he might actually be able to go home and catch a few hours of sleep when the second cat staggered out of the shadows behind a dumpster, movements slow and awkward thanks to the arrows protruding from its limbs.

_Shit,_ Stiles thought frantically. He'd seen that one take enough damage to be down for the count until he could get his scrawny human ass out of the line of fire. The air stank of blood, even to Stiles, or maybe that was just his clothes. He made a mental note to never, ever again try drawing a supernatural creature away as a distraction. Really, never again. He watched, paralyzed, as she (or he? Stiles couldn't really tell) changed direction to curl up around the broken husk of the first creature, its breathing labored and shallow. The cat let out a keening whine, sniffing at the other's snout.

_Oh_ , Stiles realised, belatedly. “I think,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “I think we just killed its mate.”

“Stiles!” Scott called out. “C'mon man, you're never going to get a better shot! Torch it!”

The cat looked up, green eyes gleaming furiously in the dimly lit alley. “No,” Stiles said, shaking his head. Isaac looked back at him, confusion plain on his face, claws still drawn.

“You'll leave now, won't you?” Stiles asked the creature – a ceilican, he remembered, calling to mind a half remembered slog through Wikipedia - who just tilted its head and regarded him strangely. _I'm talking to a werecat_ , Stiles thought, in too much pain to be properly astonished. Just when he thought his life couldn't get any stranger, inevitably, it did.

“Bad dogs,” the cat chastised, a terrified quiver shaking its voice. “Bad town. No good for hunting.”

“So, you'll leave our territory?” Scott questioned, clearly as confused as Isaac, claws still just as ready and raised as if to attack.

“Bury mine,” it acknowledged, nuzzling at the downed werecat's unmoving neck. “Then leave. Find better place.” It lowered its head, whimpering as it covered the corpse protectively with its body. “Will leave. Please.”

Scott nodded, glancing up at the rooftop where a steady stream of arrows had whizzed past only moments ago, saving Stiles from a swift and painful disemboweling. No movement disturbed the shadows; if Allison had ever been there, she was gone now.

The cat shifted into a slightly more human form, at least more bipedal, and began to drag the corpse of its mate back inside the warehouse. It glared at them, furious and broken, with every heavy step.

“We won,” Isaac whispered, turning to face Scott. “We actually did it!” He leapt at Scott, entangling him in a forceful hug that Scott returned with some surprise, a strange smile lighting up his face.

“Yeah,” he answered, still half-surprised at their own victory. “Yeah, we did.”

“No thanks to me,” Stiles muttered, climbing slowly to his feet. “I'm just the one who brought the explosives. Just the one who did all the research. No reason to say 'Hey, thanks for that Stiles! Thanks for saving our overconfident werewolf asses,' or anything.” He knew they could hear him. Knew it, and turned around anyway.

He didn't need to see his former best friend celebrate victory with his new best wolfy pal, or whatever that was. He'd understood, the way friends do, when it had been Allison. Understood in the way that when your dorky BFF is finally getting some, you don't get in the way of that. Knew that if things had ever worked out between him and Lydia (fat chance) he wouldn't have wanted Scott barging in all the time. But this? This was something new and different and even though Stiles knew all about being left behind, it didn't mean he had to like it.

It was his own fault, really, for not putting the puzzle together fast enough. He'd spent so much time tracking the pattern of maulings across the outskirts of town, hours in front of the police scanner, so many days staring at google maps and blueprints and marking X's and drawing lines – he'd even broken out a ruler and compass at one point for god's sakes. His fault, and no one else's for realising too late that there were two of them this time. Occasional coordinated points of attack, but two different paths to follow in terms of scent and sightings from near victims. The wolves had been chasing their own tails, arguing over the unfamiliar scent all up in their territory, and in his frustration, he'd bailed, trying to figure it out on his own before someone actually died.

Then he'd heard the call come in over the radio, heard the responders echo the witnesses 'unbelievable' description of two giant cats that had circled their Volkswagen down on the low end of Industrial, trapping them inside. There were two children in the back, probably scarred for life from seeing glowing eyes appear out of the darkness and hearing the scrape of thick claws along the metal doors.

Still, if they'd asked him – and no one ever did – Stiles would have bet dollars to doughnuts that the ceilican were probably just scared to death of a ferocious metal beast and not some sort of werecat bandits attempting to perpetrate a kiddie-snack snatch-and-grab. (And yes, he was aware of how ridiculous he'd sound if he ever said 'werecat bandits' aloud.) He'd called Scott three times, even tried texting after driving to the train station and finding everyone gone, already on the hunt. He'd panicked before steeling himself and driving at ludicrous speed to the location he'd finally pinpointed as their lair.

If he were a werecat (and thanks to his pilfered copy of the Argent bestiary, he'd thought they were extinct, so thanks very much for  _that_ heads up) on the run from the cops, he'd certainly retreat to a place of safety. Everyone knew the abandoned warehouses down by the river were flooded with rats the size of armadillos anyway; it seemed like a logical choice for two relatively small predators and as a nice bonus, it fit squarely in the middle of his carefully plotted notations. Relatively, Stiles thought again. It seemed everything in his life was relative these days, in one way or another.

He'd spent all summer experimenting with household chemicals, inventing new and better recipes for improvised firebombs that didn't require breaking into the chemistry lab. Lighter containers, thicker viscosity for catching and staying on target, generally better everything. He hadn't told anyone. He hadn't expected a pat on the head. It didn't mean some acknowledgment for his efforts wouldn't have been nice. And here, after all his hard work and planning and sleepless nights, Scott and Isaac had just followed their noses and managed to catch their prey anyway.

Sure, he and Allison had helped, but they wouldn't have needed Allison's help if he had just stayed home. She'd held back to avoid hitting Scott, only firing to save Stiles' life. Besides, the werecats were smaller and more skittish and probably would have fallen to teeth and claws and foolhardy lupine bravado before too long. Any damage done to the pack would have healed long before the night was over.

Stiles wondered sometimes why he even bothered. Especially when his shirt was in tatters and he couldn't be sure, but he thought there might be two each of Scott and Isaac standing at the mouth of the alley. He blinked, gripping the door of his Jeep for stability and shook his head to try to clear his vision. Of course Derek's Camaro chose that moment to come hurtling out of the darkness, heading straight for him, because that was just the way Stiles' life worked. Stiles winced at the sudden light and motion, throwing his right arm up over his eyes as Derek skidded to a halt, parallel parking Fast and Furious style. Stiles wondered idly if he'd even seen those movies as Derek climbed out of the car, snapping his phone shut with a metallic clang that echoed up and down the street. He tilted his head, scenting blood and singed fur on the air.

“I told you to track it,” he yelled at the wolves, anger apparent in the stretched-taut lines of his body. “Not to obliterate it. What were you thinking?” Derek stopped, mid-rant. “Stiles?” he questioned, sniffing the air a second time for confirmation and heading towards the scent.

“Yo,” Stiles answered from the shadows across the alley, holding up a bloodied hand in a half-hearted salute.

“Why are you here?” Derek asked when he reached him, seeming genuinely confused.

“Well,” Stiles replied, managing to steady his voice despite the very strong inclination to lose his dinner all over Derek's shoes. “For starters, I figured out what you were hunting, that there were two of them, not just one, aaand that this was probably their lair.” He swayed slightly and Derek's hand was at his elbow, steadying him.

“You're bleeding,” he commented drily.

“About that,” Stiles explained. “When Moe and Larry over there don't listen to you and go after the same weretabby,” he gestured out of habit, causing his entire body to sway back and forth. “Ceilican, whatever. It kind of leaves the other one free to maul the human throwing the firebombs.” His knees gave out and he grabbed for the front seat, but Derek was there first, hands under his arms, settling him gently down against the vinyl interior. “Stay here,” he instructed, eyes flashing red, and yeah, great, that was just what Stiles needed tonight. A lecture from a cranky Alpha after he disciplined the kids.

He saw Derek approach Scott and Isaac through the windshield, heard the roar as he shifted and saw Isaac shrink away in fear. Scott stubbornly stood his ground, and yeah, things really were going every bit as well in the pack as Stiles expected.

“But we found it – er, them!” Stiles heard Scott correct himself as he argued with Derek, and knew Scott had overheard his less-than-flattering explanation. “If we'd waited for backup from the rest of you, they might have gotten away!” Derek raised his arm, claws flashing in the yellow glare of his headlights and for just a moment, Stiles actually expected him to knock Scott down. He didn't, and the moment passed after nothing more than a pissy, neon-colored staring contest.

“You really expect me to believe there were two ceilican in Beacon Hills?” Derek asked, his features returning to normal.

“I dunno,” Scott answered with a shrug. “They kind of looked like Thundercats, though, if that's what you mean. Why?”

Derek's face took on that blank look he wore when he was either really mad or seriously unimpressed.

“They nearly died out in the middle ages, for one thing,” he explained, clearly at the end of his small reserve of patience. “They mainly stick to the woods, and they never attack humans unless provoked. Which you'd know, if you ever bothered to do any of your own research.”

Stiles smirked a little, between wheezes.

“So, the two of you just decided to take the initiative – _against my orders_ \- and kill them?” Derek continued. “Both of them?”

“Yes,” Scott asserted with his usual disregard for authority, and even from here, even with his faulty human senses, Stiles could hear the lie. This was going so well, it would be one for the record books.

“Then where are the bodies?” Derek demanded, pointing to a charred spot on the cement.

“We threw them in the river,” Stiles offered helpfully, leaning out of the Jeep. “Yeah. Couldn't figure out anything else to do with 'em.” Derek stared at him for a long time before finally nodding.

“You two,” he said, addressing Scott and Isaac. “Go home. We'll talk about this later.” He tossed his keys to Isaac who managed to curl up from the ground just in time to catch them. “Not a scratch,” he admonished, turning his back on them to pace back to Stiles' Jeep.

Stiles stared. After the last time Derek had let Scott drive his car, he'd sworn it would be the last. Apparently he trusted Isaac to do a better job, which, I mean, Stiles liked the guy and all, but he sure as hell wouldn't have trusted him with his Jeep. Must be a pack thing, he figured, rolling his eyes. If he drove a car like that, friends or not, he wouldn't be loaning it out to anyone. Well, he thought, feeling slightly delirious, maybe Derek could borrow it. With a significant security deposit. Saying the guy knew how to drive was like saying – was like -

Stiles blinked when his head hit the door frame, and attempted to sit back up. Derek loomed over him, though Stiles hadn't heard his approach across the asphalt. Freaking ninja, that guy. “Give me your keys,” he said, definitely an order and not a request.

“Rude,” Stiles fired back, promptly slumping back against the seat as a new wave of dizziness hit him. The stench of blood was nearly unbearable, and he knew he'd have to find a way to explain it to his dad. Again.

“Stiles,” Derek spat out his name like the syllables had to roll over gravel before leaving his mouth, and Stiles gave in.

“Yeah, ok, fine,” he muttered, digging them out from his pocket with a grunt of pain. “But you break it, you bought it, buddy.”

“Why did you lie back there?” Derek asked after a few miles. Nearly unconscious in the passenger seat, Stiles barely heard the question, and pretended to be asleep. “Stiles,” Derek prodded, at first just with words and then upon still receiving no response, with a claw against his side.

“Ow,” Stiles complained, even though it hadn't hurt. Not really. “Ok, fine. We killed one of them, right? Scott and Isaac already had it pinned when I got there, but it was scrappy and trying to rip them a baker's dozen of new ones, so - when I had a good shot, I took it. Instant crispy critter.” Stiles tried not to sound as guilty as he felt, but even semi-conscious, he could tell it wasn't working. “The other one leapt out of a window or something, fuck if I know, but it was coming straight for me so I nailed that one too.” He paused for a gasping breath, his right hand continuing to gesture even in the absence of words. “But with the rate it was moving, the fire went out pretty quickly. I should work on that formula, make it more resistant to – you know - “ he waved his arm back and forth, attempting to emulate velocity. “Anyway, if Allison hadn't shown up -”

“Allison was there?” Derek interrupted, more growling than actual words.

“Yes,” Stiles snapped. “And it's a good thing she was, because the Wonder Twins were busing scoring an overkill on the first one and never even saw the second. Allison ventilated it, and it had the good sense to back down.”

“So you really only killed one of them, there's another ceilican still prowling the streets where anyone could see it, and you both decided to lie to me about it.” Derek gripped the steering wheel so hard Stiles could swear he heard it bend. “They don't look like mountain lions, Stiles, and if we get more hunters in town because you morons can't get your stories straight -”

“Hey, watch it there, Hulk,” Stiles threw back. “I can't afford a new steering wheel for this jalopy right now. And yes, technically we lied, but – but here's the thing.” He paused, trying to figure out how to explain. The road was moving too quickly beneath them, how was he supposed to think with all of those trees and lights whizzing right past?

“I'm waiting,” Derek reminded him.

“Yeah, ok,” Stiles continued. “See, the one we killed – I think it was the other one's mate. The lore said that Ceilican mate for life, and – I know they're not supposed to exist, but neither are werewolves, right? Like this is a whole new level of cryptozoology for me here. Those two seemed seemed pretty feral so who the hell knows, but -” Stiles paused, leaning his head against the window in defeat. “You should have seen the way that thing looked at us, dude. The _noises_ it was making.”

Derek was looking at him, glancing occasionally back at the road. Staring was a better term, Stiles decided after a few moments of extreme creepiness. “You showed mercy,” he said quietly, turning back to the dashboard.

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “And if you had been there, if you had heard that thing beg for the chance to bury its dead and then leave town -” the rest of his words stuck in the back of Stiles' throat and he nearly choked on them.

“I would have done the same thing,” Derek said, briefly resting his hand on Stiles' shoulder and he tried not to wince at the white hot flare of pain. He wondered idly if his flight into the wood pile had dislocated his shoulder.

“Jackson wouldn't have,” Stiles commented, his words coming out thick and slow. “Or Erica. Boyd might've been on the fence about it.”

Derek snorted, and put his hand back on the wheel. “But you're not like them.”

_No,_ Stiles thought bitterly. Of course he wasn't. He was just the stupid human who kept getting in the way and having to be rescued. No wolfy healing powers for him. He'd been stupid enough to turn them down when they'd been offered.

Somewhere, very far away, Derek was still talking. “ - usually don't outlive their mates. But trust me, even if it does, it won't ever want to come back here.”

 

When Stiles came to, he was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, propped up against the side of the bed. He bit down on his cheek to distract himself from the worrying ache in his shoulder, but upon inspection, he discovered he once again had full range of motion.

Derek hovered in the doorway, a large first aid kit in his hands. An extremely well-stocked first aid kit because, well, Stiles had never been the most graceful being on the planet and he figured that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. Tonight's exploits had only proven the rule.

“Wait,” Stiles asked. “How did we even – how did you?” He left off, gesturing around them at his bedroom.

Derek rolled his eyes. “The spare key under the rock beneath the lamp. You were out cold, so I just – carried you up here.” He glanced at the opposite wall, scratching his head as if he were embarrassed by the entire situation. Stiles empathized, he really really did. “I had to set your shoulder, too,” Derek explained hesitantly, talking to a band poster instead of Stiles' face. “I figured it was better to do it while you were still unconscious.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, wincing. “Thanks for that.” It probably sounded sarcastic, he thought, but he meant it. Really. That was not an experience he wanted to remember. Ever.

“I – look.” Derek began, turning back around and fumbling with the kit. “Can you sit up on the bed? That would make this a lot easier.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “That would make _what_ a lot easier?”

Derek closed his eyes and shifted his jaw. “Treating your wounds,” he grumbled, as if Stiles was the least intelligent human he'd ever had to put up with. Stiles complied, only stumbling a bit as he perched on the edge of the bed. Derek knelt down in front of him, opening the case and digging through its admittedly ambitious contents.

“Are you secretly preparing for the zombie apocalypse?” he asked, glancing back up at Stiles.

“No, just your average, run of the mill night spent running with the wolves,” Stiles shot back with a bit more acid than he'd intended. Derek bit his lip and returned his gaze to the kit, picking out what he thought he might need.

He lifted his hands to the shredded remnants of Stiles' shirt, pausing as his fingers tangled in the fabric. “I need to – is that all right?” Derek asked, not looking at him, and Stiles blinked, wondering how this was actually his life. Derek, Mr. Badass Alpha Wolf Derek Hale was actually asking him,  _Stiles_ , if he could take off his shirt.

Stiles bit down on his tongue and nodded, reminding himself that even in his craziest fantasies, he hadn't been covered in blood and bruises. That sobering thought kept him from letting out the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in his chest as Derek gently lifted the fabric over his head, careful not to disturb his left shoulder.

Derek made a face, taking in the damage. “That bad?” Stiles asked, watching the unfamiliar look rearrange his features. It almost seemed like concern, and if Derek was concerned -

“They're not very deep,” Derek assured him, examining the scratches more closely. “Mostly. It's possible there was some sort of anticoagulant on the claws, that would explain all the blood. The rest is just bruising.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, the hysteria about to get the best of him. “That's a relief.”

Derek looked up at him then and just shook his head, picking up a large packet of antiseptic wipes. He carefully examined every scrape, every gouge that the evening's exploits had left Stiles with like painful little mementos. Between royally pissing off two werecats and being hurled into a rotting pile of scrap wood, there were more than a few. Somehow, even with the hours of research he'd done, Stiles had still expected the cats to be more like angry little furballs and less like homicidal whirlwinds with three-inch claws and serious anger management issues. He supposed, in retrospect, that anything deserving a prefix like “were-” couldn't be anything less. And it wasn't like knowing would have stopped him from getting involved anyway, not when the danger to the pack was still so immediately, well, immediate. Call it a failing. It was still true.

He winced at the first cold bite of alcohol against his skin, and Derek made this  _sound_ in response, soft and quiet in his throat. Stiles had never heard anything quite like it and didn't know how to process the goosebumps that rose up in its wake. Tossing the blood-stained wipe aside, Derek gave up, and Stiles thoroughly expected him to get to his feet and tell Stiles he could see to the rest. Shoulder fixed, injuries examined, now be a good little human and patch yourself up. Again. As usual.

Instead, Derek bent his head over a particularly large gash on his arm and licked at it, his tongue unexpectedly rough, and Stiles was dimly aware that he should yank his hand away because first of all,  _what_ , and secondly this was  _Derek,_ actually stroking his damaged skin, gently and thoroughly with his tongue, and these things simply did not happen outside of pornography.

“Dude,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse and shaken and he thought it might not carry outside his head. “You do know that cats have bacteria on their claws, right? _Barton- bartonella hens_ _– I know it's something to do with hens._ You do not want to be licking that, I mean, you could get all kinds of sick from – from doing that, jesus.”

But Derek didn't seem to be listening, and the sting was slowly going away and yeah, Stiles thought, maybe he was actually still in shock because the entire experience was actually kind of soothing. He let himself sink into that feeling, let himself drift a bit and enjoy it for as long as it was going to last. With the sudden turn his night had taken, Stiles sort of suspected he might just be dreaming, and would wake up battered and alone in some abandoned back alleyway before too long.

And then Derek's mouth moved up, nuzzling into Stiles' elbow with his nose, still making that impossible noise. Stiles didn't know how to process one single bit of what was happening, and wasn't that just the icing on the cake? This was his life now. Sneaking out at impossible hours to help werewolves – freaking  _ungrateful werewolves_ take on other mysterious creatures of the night, and that should terrify him, should tear him apart neuron by neuron but it didn't. Whatever vital part of the human brain responded to danger and the true, verifiable existence of the impossible had either shut down in him or never been present in the first place. Even when something like this happened, and he ended the evening bruised and scraped and very possibly concussed, he still wasn't sane enough to run away. No, Stiles encouraged it. He researched it. He planned for it.

All just to understand it, to see how it ticked from the inside out.

Stiles reached out a cautious hand and ran his fingers through Derek's hair. Derek froze in place, his nose still pressed warm against Stiles' skin and they stayed that way for a moment, lingering just a heartbeat longer. “You shouldn't have come tonight,” Derek muttered, finally pulling away.

Stiles tugged on his hair in annoyance. “Don't be ridiculous, of course I should have. And anyway, it's not like you could have stopped me.” Derek's eyes flared an angry red and Stiles knew he should move away, really he should. Any sane person would want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and those bright red eyes and all the threat they contained. But that would put his back against another wall, and he'd had enough experience with that for one night. Stiles stayed firmly put on the edge of the bed, meeting what should be a terrifying creature gaze for gaze and found that it actually wasn't all that frightening after all. Because the thing was, he was just Derek, no more, no less. Beneath all the posturing, the patented stony glare, the fangs, the claws, and yes, those fascinating eyes, he was a person who hurt and bled and laughed, just like anyone else.

“What makes you think I couldn't have stopped you?” Derek asked, his voice canting lower and Stiles shivered at the sound. Derek's voice had always been able to do uncomfortable things to his insides, and Stiles suspected he knew it and used that fact to his (utterly unscrupulous) advantage.

“Because I'm part of your pack, you idiot,” Stiles answered, frowning just a little to get the point across. “If you're in, I'm in, and besides -” he took a breath to finish what might be a truly unfortunate sentence. “You need me.”

Derek sat back on his heels, studying him with those brilliant, glowing eyes and Stiles watched, hopelessly caught as something in his face cracked. Just the tiniest bit, but it was there and Stiles saw it, cataloged it like everything else. Filed it away for future reference and study because it was  _his words_ that did it this time, just simple words and not some grievous act of betrayal or another reminder that he would always end up alone in the end. Just the opposite, really. This time, it was a promise.

Derek slumped forward and put his head on Stiles' knees. Stiles let his hands rake through his hair again, slipping down to stroke Derek's face and hoping he would chalk it up to delirium. “You don't see it,” Derek murmured against Stiles' roving hands. “You put yourself through physical and mental agony, and it never bothers you because you think you're not important.”

Stiles didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, so he settled for sarcasm instead. “This is you saying this. To me.” He did laugh then, just a little. “Derek Hale, telling me that I don't have enough self-preservation instinct. Have you seen yourself lately?”

"I'm the Alpha, I don't have any choice -”

“Bullshit,” Stiles whispered. “You're the guy that stared down an Alpha when you were still a Beta, threw yourself right at him to keep me safe.” Derek looked up angrily, ready to contradict him, but Stiles wasn't finished. “Yeah, I saw that, even from my seat way down on the floor. I notice things. It's kind of the only thing I'm good for. I'm a walking, talking encyclopedia, and yes, recently I've taken up an unhealthy interest in explosives but I'm still not a wolf and you shouldn't be wasting your time on me when you've got a whole pack to wrangle.”

Derek shook his head. “Wasting my – Stiles, if you think that's the only reason, then -”

“I screw everything else up!” Stiles insisted. “Look at me! Look at what you've spent your entire evening _doing_!”

“Because you're important to me, Stiles!” Derek all but shouted. “One of these days you're going to get yourself killed and then what the hell am I going to do?”

Stiles blinked. Of all the words he might have expected would come out of Derek's mouth, those were the very last. Derek leaned forward, rising to his knees and Stiles refused to budge, not even an inch, as Derek buried his face in his neck. His grip on Derek's hair tightened briefly, before allowing his hand to slide down a few inches, contacting the prickled skin at the nape.

“I just want you to be safe,” Derek mumbled, “need to keep you safe and you won't _let me._ ” Something in Derek's voice was dangerously close to a whine and his breath steamed hot against Stiles' neck. A shiver ran down his spine, an incongruous heat racing through the rest of his body and he knew Derek could feel it, could probably smell it with one of his totally unfair lupine tricks. Stiles should be embarrassed by it, knew that was the correct response, but oddly enough - he wasn't.

“So I am pack, then?” Stiles questioned softly, because as sure as he'd made himself sound, he really wasn't, not by a long shot.

“Of course you're pack,” Derek grumbled against his throat, his tongue slipping out to lick and suck at the soft, bruised skin beneath. He dropped his head a little, probably realising what he was doing and thinking that he should stop. Stiles disagreed, refusing to relax his grip on the back of Derek's neck.

“There's a reason you don't find humans in many packs,” Derek struggled to explain, leaning back gently against Stiles' fingers. “And this? This right here?” He ran his thumb along a splinter still lodged in Stiles arm and yanked it out ungently, watching the blood pool in the hollow of his elbow. “This is why.” Stiles glanced down at the blood, thinking that he should be feeling pain or anger or anything instead of wishing that Derek would lick that wound clean, too.

“I know I can't heal the way you do,” Stiles admitted, glancing back up. “But you're not going to push me away just because I might get hurt. You may have noticed, but I can be pretty overprotective of the people that matter to me.” The words sounded like they were meant to be a joke, but his tone disagreed.

Derek pulled back, then, and Stiles finally decided to let him. Let Derek slowly look him over, inch by damaged inch, until finally coming back to rest on his face. More precisely his lips, damp with saliva where Stiles had pulled them back into his mouth repeatedly while being so closely examined. “Yeah, that's right,” he asserted, punctuating his words with a finger to Derek's chest. “You. Matter. And it's insane that I have to be the one telling you that.”

Derek closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in what would look like defeat on anyone else. On Derek, it just looked like a strange sort of previously unobserved determination and Stiles marked that down in the record, too. “Go to sleep, Stiles,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“'m not sleepy,” Stiles argued, accompanied by a traitorous yawn. “Besides, I'm not letting you off the hook that easy.”

“What part of this was easy?” Derek asked, looking up at him with a strange and painful clarity on his face. “Stiles, you confuse the hell out of me.”

Stiles grinned, looking oddly pleased with himself. “I confuse  _you_ ,” he replied. “That's just – ok first of all, that's ridiculous, and secondly, can I have that carved in stone? Because I'm probably never going to hear it again.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I've have a plaque made up if it gets you to go to sleep.” He pushed lightly against Stiles' chest, sending him tumbling back against a pile of pillows. His very comfortable, extremely inviting pillows. His eyelids were far heavier than they had any right to be and  _oh yeah_ , he recalled, somewhat distantly, this was what it felt like when all the adrenaline finally wised up and fled your system.

Derek hovered over him, the tip of his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips and for a moment he looked so lost that Stiles thought he might never find his way home. He reached out his right arm and twined his fingers around Derek's, gently tugging him down towards the bed. Derek hesitated, his head tilting to the side in an expression that belonged next to the entry for 'conflicted' in Webster's. Stiles thought about letting go, actually thought his brain had decided that was the best course of action for the time being, when he felt Derek's fingers sliding lightly across his chest, feeling out the edges of each bruise starting at his shoulders. They lingered against his collarbone, pressing down and all of Stiles' breath left his lungs in a rush. He might be semi-conscious, even delirious, but he  _knew_ pain like that wasn't supposed to feel so good. Stiles arched into it, felt Derek's fingers curl into knuckles and continue their exploration; a gentle push here, a firmer stroke there, his left hand still clutching at Stiles' right. Stiles let his mouth fall open and he sucked in a deep breath, suddenly way too interested to break the mood with commentary as to how this should feel totally weird, except for the part where it totally  _wasn't_ and was fantastic instead.

“I think,” he stammered, the words winning out and taking a sharp turn to the left. “I think you missed a few spots. You know, earlier, when you were,” Stiles held up his right arm for examination, turning it over to show off three lengthwise scrapes across the skin. Derek's eyes were wide, and even in the dim light from his bedside lamp, Stiles could see his dilated pupils taking up all the space. Derek crawled completely onto the bed, straddling Stiles' body where he'd slumped against the pillows. He lowered his head to Stiles' arm, lifting it up where their hands joined and slowly, thoroughly licked each wound clean. Stiles made soft, helpless noises as Derek's tongue lapped up the inside of his elbow, lightly nipping and biting at the unmarked skin. He braced his right hand against the mattress and continued on to the gashes just below Stiles' breastbone, by far the deepest and most sensitive. Stiles' body lifted right off the bed as he felt the hot, wet contact on jagged skin, torn raw and bruised about the edges. Derek's hand stroked his ribcage, pressing down hard in all the right places and Stiles bit down on his lips to keep from crying out.

It was agony; it was perfect, and he never wanted it to stop. A tiny, barely audible voice in the back of Stiles' mind reminded him that nothing about this should have given him an erection, but he promptly squashed the thought. He let go of Derek's hand in favor of wrapping his arms around his back, welcoming the ache it produced in his shoulder as he whispered Derek's name over and over again. He felt Derek shift to settle one thigh in between his legs and Stiles gave in, pressing his hips against Derek's leg and rocking slowly back and forth, losing the cadence of his repetitions to indecipherable moans. Derek hummed, a hairsbreadth from a growl, sliding his leg up and down to match Stiles' pace. His tongue never left Stiles' skin, sliding up his chest to suck at one perfect, erect nipple (and oh, the noises Stiles made, his hips bucking up and losing their rhythm) before laving his neck, entirely, from one side to the other.

He pressed Stiles' arms down into the mattress, squeezing just hard enough to get a reaction and lowered his neck until their foreheads touched. Stiles' hips moved faster and rougher, and he had never hated a pair of jeans so much in his  _life_ . He could feel Derek's cock thrusting against his hips, wanted to move to slip them off but his hands were pinned and he couldn't stop moving, squirming, dragging his hard-on across that miserable (wonderful) friction. A drop of sweat beaded along Derek's temple and fell onto Stiles' cheek and he felt it burn a slow, ticklish path across his skin. He arched his neck, too lost in sensation to sort one out from the next and felt Derek's hips stutter, realised the muscles in his arms were shaking. Derek jerked forward once, twice, the pressure from his thigh almost too much and Stiles felt the orgasm that tore through him in every point that touched his flesh. Then Derek's lips were on his, kissing him deep and wet, pulling Stiles' tongue into his mouth and biting down before letting it slip away. He sucked against Stiles' lower lip and Stiles had almost forgotten his hips were still moving, had almost lost track of where, exactly, all his pleasure was centered when it exploded, a white-hot haze rocking him forward into Derek, their teeth briefly colliding from the impact. Derek kissed him through it, releasing his grip on Stiles' arms and wrapping them back around his chest instead. He pulled them over onto their sides, stroking the back of Stiles' head, down his neck and lightly scraping his nails along his back.

Stiles couldn't speak, just let his head fall against Derek's shoulder and breathed, filling his lungs with a series of shallow gasps. A million, half-formed thoughts swarmed the inside of his brain, but his lips were shaking, every part of him was shaking and he couldn't form them into words that made any sort of sense. Derek's eyes were closed, his face flushed except for his lips, drained white of blood where he'd bitten down on them. Stiles couldn't quite interpret the noise he made but it sounded almost like regret, and oh, hell no. That was not going to happen.

Stiles pushed himself up just enough to run his hands beneath Derek's sweat soaked shirt (and oh, he really wished he'd gotten that off of him, but there was always next time). He pressed a kiss to Derek's forehead, his cheek, and finally his lips, drawing them out from whatever self-imposed chastising was going on in Derek's head. Derek kissed him back, softly this time, gently, and when Stiles fell back against the pillows there was a strange curiousity in Derek's eyes.

“I don't know what this was,” he admitted. “And I sure as hell don't know how to handle it.”

“It was awesome,” Stiles corrected, still gasping for air like a drowning fish. “And next time, we're going to handle it without pants. Because this is really sticky and I'm probably going to be super, extra sore as soon as the endorphins wear off. Not that I'm complaining or anything because again, awesome.”

Derek stared at him, mouth slightly open, and then he laughed. Laughed like someone who only had two options, and laughter was decidedly the better of the two. “All right,” he agreed, knowing when he had been beaten. By a crafty, masochistic sixteen year old, no less, and if that should cause him some moral compunctions, he wasn't going to think about that tonight. There would be plenty of time to hate himself later, of that Derek was certain.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” Stiles declared. “And then I'm finding some pajamas and so help me god, you will still be here when I get back.” Derek raised an eyebrow, but didn't voice any objections.

Stiles limped out of the room and cleaned himself up, unable to help looking in the mirror and wincing. He was a wreck, well and truly, and tomorrow was going to require some creative layering on the part of his wardrobe. Not that he minded. To say that the experience had been illuminating as to his general perspective on life was an understatement. He pulled a pair of sweatpants and a soft t-shirt out of the overflowing laundry basket, because laundry was only one of many household chores that had fallen by the wayside over the past few days. He slipped back into his room, satisfied to see a now shirtless Derek perched on the edge of his bed, head down, window open.

He'd thought about it, Stiles knew he had. But he hadn't left. He'd stayed. Stiles nodded in the direction of the bathroom and Derek took the hint, returning in a few minutes looking significantly less sweaty and presumably less sticky.

Stiles was curled up on the bed on his right side, covers turned down, an inviting space left beside him. Derek hesitated, glancing once toward the window before climbing in behind Stiles and wrapping one arm around him protectively. He pulled up the sheet and then threw it back, still too warm to bother with any covers.

“If my dad finds us like this, he's going to kill you,” Stiles remarked drowsily. “And probably me, too.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Derek responded. “I'll leave before he gets home, I promise. That still gives me a couple of hours.” He pulled Stiles closer against his chest and pressed his nose to the back of Stiles' neck. “Just, for now,” he murmured. “Just let me have this for now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles answered, beginning to drift off to sleep in a cocoon of strong arms and gentle, almost apologetic hands. The scent of their commingled sweat drifted up from the sheets, washed over Stiles like a declaration, and he couldn't get enough of it. He pressed his face against the pillow, then leaned back against Derek's shoulder and nuzzled against his cheek. It made sense, Stiles thought, his mind heavy with sleep, that they even smelled good together. “Yeah,” he said again. “As long as you want.”

 

 


End file.
